


Iklaladrân

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Winter Soldier, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Black Speech, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Khuzdul, Kinda, King Thorin, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Sindarin, Winter Soldier AU, Winter Soldier Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7320175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo remembers nothing of his past life and previous plans to be married. He is merely tasked with one simple mission:</p><p>Kill Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iklaladrân

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me while I was listening to Welcome to Night Vale (completely unrelated?? I don't even know) - Bilbo is kidnapped by orcs and taken to Mordor for "reconditioning" for several years, and is believed to be dead by the Company of Thorin Oakenshield (all of whom somehow survived the Battle of the Five Armies). Several years later, Thorin and Bilbo cross paths once again, but it's nothing like the reunion Thorin had imagined.
> 
> I, of course, had to [scream about this on tumblr for a while](http://plantyourtreeswithme.tumblr.com/tagged/winter%20soldier%20au), and send the post to all of my friends. Because that's the reasonable reaction, right?
> 
> Many thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar for his help with my slaughter of Neo-Khuzdul, as always. Hover over Khuzdul, Sindarin, or Black Speech to see the translation!

"Thorin?"

The entrance to the tent flapped harshly in the breeze, and although he knew that Balin could see him inside, lying on the cot, his white-haired cousin did not enter.

"Thorin, you cannot just lie on the camp bed all day and do nothing."

He did not answer.

"I know that you are mourning, and I'm sorry, but you have a kingdom to lead. I am so, so sorry, Thorin. He did not deserve the fate that was given to him."

_I know._

 

* * *

 

He had thought that he was lucky.

Lucky to have survived, lucky to have won, lucky to be pitied by his hastily-made allies, and thus, excused for his actions whilst _indisposed_ (for lack of a better word).

Thorin had dared to believe that things were going to be alright - that Bilbo had forgiven him for the battlements, for banishing him, for casting him out of the Mountain like a broken, lonely toy that he had finally grown tired of.

Bilbo had run to Thorin on Ravenhill, where he and Dwalin waited for Azog to spring upon them, hungry for blood and with his mace at the ready. The batterd, bloodstained hobbit had quite literally dragged his own jacket from his shoulders, pulled the _mithril_ vest Thorin had given him over his head, and refused to leave until Thorin was wearing it.

"And I  _do_ know what it bloody well means to give someone  _mithril_ , you obstinate dwarf," Bilbo had hissed, his eyes locked onto Thorin's and his gaze unwavering. "I... well, I suppose I accept the offer, even if you  _were_ under the guise of that awful, dreadful disease when you gave it to me. And if you will not have me accept, then I'll just have to offer it to _you_ as a token of engagement. Is that alright?"

A heavy rush of air escaped Thorin, and he said, "Bilbo, I cannot -"

"Don't start! Just..." Bilbo paused for a moment, then stood on his tiptoes and pressed a single, fierce kiss to Thorin's lips.  _"Survive."_

And Thorin had.

The _mithril_ had saved his life, and he had successfully sent Azog afloat beneath the thick layer of ice that coated Ravenhill. Somehow, miraculously, he was alive. The burning hatred of Azog the Defiler flickered and was silent, and Thorin suffered only a few scratches and scrapes - nothing that Óin wouldn't be able to handle.

He had searched and searched for Bilbo after the battle was over, wanting very much to take the halfling up on his offer, but he was nowhere to be found. Eventually, Bifur had desperately conversed with an elf who had seen Bilbo after the fighting had finished. The cursed, blasted tree-hugger told him that he had seen the halfling dragged over a cliff by a huge orc.

Thorin did not know why he did not cry. Perhaps the years of hiding his emotions from his own people, even from his family, had hardened him and drained the tears from his eyes.

Dwalin came to his tent on a misty morning, saying between harsh, jagged breaths, "We found Bilbo's... we found..."

"What? What did you find? Is he alive? Have you found him?"

His old friend shook his bald, tattooed head, his arm shaking, and said, "We found his severed  _arm_ , Thorin. At the bottom of that ravine the elf said he had fallen down. His arm..."

"Did you find his body?" Thorin asked tremulously.

"No. They must have taken it, as a trophy or a keepsake, I do not know. I'm... I'm sorry, Thorin, I'm so sorry..."

Only after Dwalin left did the tears fall. They rolled down Thorin's cheeks in quiet streams, and he found himself thinking,  _Why did I take the_ mithril _from him? It could've saved his life, could've kept him from losing a damn arm, could've kept him from quietly bleeding to death at the bottom of a cliff..._

 

* * *

 

Bilbo could not exactly remember what happened after the battle, as he had blacked out for several days.

He vaguely remembered facing down the gargantuan orc, his sword Sting in his shaky right hand, by the cliffside, and he also remembered thinking,  _This is probably a very stupid and dangerous idea, Bilbo, don't you want to live to go back and get married to Thorin and live happily ever after as consort under the Mountain?_

He brusquely realized that there were not, in fact, any happy endings. Lúthien still died despite her promised immortality, Azog still survived after his righteous defeat at the hands of a fifty-three year old dwarf, and he did not know if Thorin was alive or with his Maker.

His arm ached, and the cold, unfamiliar surface he was lying on sent chills through his body. He reached out with his left hand to feel the floor beneath him, and then stopped.

Bilbo had lost his  _entire left arm_. It shouldn't even have been able to ache.

He turned his head slightly and looked down at the bizarre contraption attached to the stump of his forearm - a silvery apparatus that was attached to his arm via a series of metal clasps that were somehow...  _embedded_ in his shoulder. The socket was attached to a slender appendage composed of the same glimmering metal that shone in the torchlight and was the exact same length of his original arm. His knuckles were engraved with an intricate design composed of several holes that let him see into the inner part of the hollow hand. Long, spidery fingers connected by interlocking, minuscule gears, cogs, and tiny rods of steel.

When he brushed his mechanic fingertips against the chilled floor he was lying on, he could _feel_ the rigid stone.

_It is imbued with magic and forged of_ mithril _,_ announced a thunderous, echoing voice, and he sat up too suddenly, bile rising in his throat. The voice chuckled, and Bilbo couldn't pinpoint the source of it - it was all around him, pressing in on him, invading his thoughts and his mind.

_Easy,_ the voice purred, and it sounded friendly enough.

"Wh-who are you?" he called out into the darkness of room. He shakily got to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the flickering torches surrounding him, and turned around, trying to find an exit. The cord at his side where Sting normally hung was bare, the elven dagger absent.

_A friend._

"That's a lie. If you were a friend, why would you have taken me here?"

_I healed you and replaced your arm, didn't I?_ said the unidentifiable being.  _I have not harmed you._

Bilbo supposed that was true. "But you're holding me here against my will."

_Yes. You see, my dear hobbit, you were intended for a greater purpose in life. You have a place in the Song of Eru, in the discord of the melody and the clashing harmonies. You will forge a new path - with my help._

"But I'm just that," he responded. "I'm a hobbit. How can I _forge a new path_ if I'm just a halfling?"

_I will guide_ _you,_ came the voice again. _You will kill without mercy, without qualms, without second thoughts. And you will create a better world._

"I don't want that. I don't want to kill. I won't, and there is absolutely no way you can make me."

_Oh? Well, we shall see. You will need to be reeducated considerably for you to find your greater purpose, Bilbo Baggins. I can help._

"And do you really think that I  _want_ your help?" Bilbo asked indignantly.

_You will,_ the voice lilted.

"I regret to inform you that I have a few prior engagements!" he cried. "I'm betrothed, as I'm sure you very well know, since you already seem to know everything about me. My intended is waiting for me back in Erebor, and I'm sure he's getting quite impatient."

_Soon, you will have forgotten that you even had an intended in the first place. You will forget your own name, and what hobbits such as yourself are, and where you come from. But it is for the best._

"It most certainly is not!"

_It_ is _,_ said the disembodied voice, harder this time. Suddenly, there was a horrible pressure all about his mind, as if someone were clenching it tightly in their fist. It felt like a dull ache and a hundred spears piercing Bilbo all at once, and he cried out at the agonizing pain. He fell prostrate on the floor, his body racked with pain, and it seemed so easy to let go of his own thoughts and drift out of consciousness...

 

* * *

 

"Uncle? It's time."

Thorin looked up at Fíli, who was standing in the entrance of the antechamber. "So it is." He rose from the small wooden chair he had been sitting on and looked into the mirror, surveying his appearance. His black tunic and cloak clung to him like wet fabric, and he felt claustrophobic in the stiff garments. The ceremonial strings of silver clasped atop his hair shimmered when he turned his head, and the simple, ritualistic rings adorning his hands shone dully.

The single band of silver on his left ring finger he had wrought himself.

His oldest nephew and heir followed him out into the Great Hall of Thrór, and they climbed the stairs up to the elevated plinth at the front of the room, where the king and his court traditionally supped. The chamber was large enough to contain several elves, all of Thorin and Dáin's dwarves, and the majority of the population of Laketown, all of whom were present for the coronation.

He knelt before Dáin at the center of the platform, and his cousin held the new crown of silver over his head. It was softer, less pointed and hard than the crown of obsidian and gold that he had worn before, under the guise of the dragon sickness...

Thorin said the ancient oaths of his fathers in Khuzdul, saying the words without thought and his ears not hearing his voice. The red-headed dwarf before him placed the crown above the fine strands of silver, and Thorin rose to his feet, standing at his full height.

"Long live the king!" his audience chanted thrice, and a single tear fell from the corner of his eye.

 

* * *

 

"My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I am engaged to Thorin Oakenshield."

The pressure increased, and he let out a low groan through gritted teeth.

"My name is... Bilbo Baggins, and I am engaged to... a... dwarven king..."

Arrows were piercing his skull, driving into his brain.

"My name... is Bilbo... Baggins, and..."

He couldn't remember the last part. How could he have forgotten? He had just repeated it a few seconds ago.

"My... name... is Bilbo..."

 

* * *

 

Thorin stood on the staircase of the treasury, the Arkenstone clutched in his hand. He stared down at it, pondering all of the madness it had caused.

His arm raised into the air, and he threw it down into the depths. It disappeared instantly, nestling beneath pieces of gold and jewels and gems and chalices.

"Bar the treasury," he said to the guards standing outside as he reemerged. "None are to enter, not even me, but for the  _ukhâsh_. Understand?"

"Yes, your majesty."

"Thank you."

He trod down the hall heavily, feeling as if his boots were leaving imprints in the floor.

 

* * *

 

Azrâl.

Bagl.

Tagem.

Ibrizinlêkh.

Bâha-zunsh-hund.

Gimon.

'Uglakh.

Azsâlul'abad.

Nu'.

Aslun.

Bilbo (for that was his name, wasn't it?) did not understand the significance of the words that the voice repeated over and over again, and he didn't know what they meant, but he wished more than anything that they would stop. They had become as torturous as the constant assault on his mind, forcing him to fall unconscious again and again, forgetting everything.

He did not know who it was that he had been so desperate to remember, nor could he remember their significance to him. Their voice must have been low and masculine, and they were definitely taller than Bilbo, but he could not for the life of him remember what their face had looked like. He had an intuition that they had had long hair, but he didn't really know where that had come from.

Bilbo wished that he could leave, that he could turn invisible somehow. A nagging feeling at the back of his mind told him that he had once been able to, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it...

His mind was slipping, and he hated that.

He hated it so much.

 

* * *

 

A'zagh?

_"Rumush amud,"_ he responded.

He did not know who he was. He did not know if he had a name. He did not know  _what_ he was, or how he had lost his arm, or what he looked like.

But he was alive, and that was enough.

_It is time for you to train,_ said the voice,  _and I have a sneaking suspicion that you will be good at it. You will learn how to wield the sword, the bow and arrow, the axe, the spear, and most importantly, the knives. The duelling of the knives is a sacred art, and that will be a key component in your career._

He didn't know what that meant, but he did not object.

 

* * *

 

Sauron called him the  _Iklaladrân A'zagh_ , because he had supposedly "risen anew" in the wintertime, and that was all he had ever been. Nothing more.

Barad-dûr's orcs learned to fear him on the training grounds. He was a menace, attacking his combatants with no regard for his life, not weighing the risk. Borg, his prime trainer, hissed,  _"Mir, mir!"_ at him as he whipped two tiny knives between his hands without hesitating, and he understood. Black Speech, Khuzdul, and Sindarin came easily to him, although he could not remember ever having learned them.

He couldn't really remember acquiring the long sword that glowed blue every time he went to train, either, but that didn't matter. His master told him that it would certainly shock the elves when he plunged it into their guts. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

The sword pulled in and out of the training dummies as the days passed, the stuffed canvas of the figures bleeding straw.

The arching range was one of his favorite haunts, and he soon earned a reputation as the best marksman in Sauron's army. He could shoot five arrows, one after the other, within fifteen seconds, and split each one in half with the one following it. But he found no pride in his newfound ability; his only goal was to improve. He would become  _the_ best. The one and only.

Dirty strips of tight cloth, he learned, were to be wrapped around his fingers when he sparred, to prevent damage to his hands. Hands were, after all, what weapons were wielded with, and if they were injured, he would not be able to complete his assignment.

~~The _mithril_ arm required no wraps. It could break bones and crack skulls with a single blow, but he found nothing unordinary in that.~~

Stature was no matter, for he could take down orcs three times his size, his abdomen rippling with force as he swung them over his shoulder and to the ground with little to no effort. His former plump, fat features were gone, replaced with hard muscle and power. He had no idea why he was so short, but he paid it no mind; he was as strong as - maybe even stronger - than any orc on the force.

The double-headed battle axe given to him after a long day of training remained strapped to his back at all times, and soon, he could wield it well in both his right and left hands. He liked the sound the wood made when he took the handle in his metal fingers: that sort of dull, thudding clink it made when he switched from one arm to the other.

The silvery blur of the two heads was mesmerizing.

_You must prove yourself to me,_ Sauron whispered to him one day as he was throwing knives at a worn, heavily-used target.  _Kill your teacher, Borg. I do not care how, nor when, but you must -_

The Winter Soldier calmly turned in a sweeping motion, loosened his grip on the dagger in his hand, and threw it directly into Borg's chest.

_"Nar,"_ the hulking orc gasped, black blood spurting from the wound in his torso. He fell to the ground, his gnarled fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife.

There was a pause, and everyone on the throwing range turned to look at him. When he stared back, they all averted their eyes fearfully. He stalked over to Borg and pulled the blade from his chest, wiping it on his black tunic.

_You have done well._

_"Mirdautas vras,"_ he remarked.

_Indeed._

 

* * *

 

"I cannot believe you brought this," Thorin smiled, his hands roaming over the brittle wood of the Oakenshield.

"Why would I not,  _nadad_? It is a part of you."

Thorin looked up at his sister and set the wooden shield down on the table they were sitting at. "I have missed you, Dís. Erebor has missed you. I need you here by my side to renew our kingdom."

Dís snorted. "Surprisingly enough, you've been doing a rather good job at that," she replied. "I cannot take the place of queen. Not when your heart belongs to another."

Her brother's face darkened, and he looked down again, staring at his worn boots. "He is long gone, and there is nothing that could have saved him. I have tried, I assure you."

"Yet you still love him," Dís said. "He is gone, but he is still your One."

Thorin sighed. "I don't think I will be seeing him for a very, very long time."

She rested her head on his shoulder and said quietly, "I think you should bear the Oakenshield as your sigil. It is, after all, where your use-name comes from. You should take it to one of the smithies and have a handle attached, or you could craft one yourself."

"Well, _I_ think that you should rule the Mountain with me."

His sister sighed and set another parcel wrapped in paper and secured with twine on the table. "We retrieved this for you, too, per your request."

Thorin's fingers shook slightly as he unravelled the thick string tied in a bow and tore the paper away. A patchwork of flamboyantly colored cloth met his eyes, which were suddenly quite wet.

_"Nadad." _

"Dís," he choked over a small sob.

His sister pulled him into a gentle hug, and repeated,  _"Nadad,"_ comfortingly. "I am sorry."

That helped.

Not much, but it helped.

"I wanted to thank you for taking care of my boys," she continued, speaking just loudly enough for him to register her words.

"I do not think I would have been able to live with myself, had they died."

"You would have managed," she assured him. "We both would. Somehow."

 

* * *

 

"When will I be ready for my first mission?" the Winter Soldier asked, no hint of eagerness in his straightforward tone. His once-short curls had grown a bit longer and wavy, and he tied it up into a short ponytail with a thin cord as he spoke to his master.

_You already are, I believe. But first, you must rest._

"I am not tired," he stated.

_No, you aren't. Still, you need it. You have toiled for several months now without sleep, and I have kept you alive. When you wake, you will approach your first target._

"Of whom do you speak?"

_A maiden of the Dúnadain,_ Sauron informed him, _by the name of Gilraen. She yielded a son, Aragorn, who resides in an elven sanctuary with her as we speak. He is but a child, but he has lost his father, and he must soon lose his mother, as well. He must be weakened, and history must be shaped. You will carve it to my will._

He stood and surveyed the pitch black darkness of the room, watching as a fiery hand suddenly appeared in front of him and pressed forward. When the flaming, pointing index finger touched his brow, he shivered and fell forward onto the floor, his forehead burning.

The soldier slept, and knew no more.

 

* * *

 

Thorin hated the throne.

The precipice upon which he sat and his sister stood was precarious and fear-inducing, and he did not wish to inspire fear in the hearts of those who came to seek counsel from him.

A short dwarrow who Thorin did not recognize was crossing the long bridge to the plinth from the end of the hall, panting as he approached. He stopped and bowed low before the throne, and looked back up at the king, intimidated, waiting for permission to speak.

_"Shamukh,"_ Thorin greeted his subject warmly, despite his discomfort. "What is your name?"

"Leivur son of Jeivur, your highness."

"State your case, Leivur," he replied, not unkindly.

"Well, s-sir," Leivur stuttered, "I was walking with my wife and child in Dale not two days ago, and we were walking on the lake's edge where the worm's body still resides - we were being real quiet and all, I promise - and we spotted a figure across the banks on horseback, coming from the direction of the Iron Hills. They were hooded and cloaked and all, mind you, and they were short as a dwarf, if you don't mind me sayin', but they were riding a horse, full grown! I've no idea who they were, but they came from the far east, past the Iron Hills and I do suspect they were an agent of the Enemy. They were alone, your highness, and they looked real sinister-like, and I just thought that you should know, seeing as you're the king and all."

Dís smiled slightly and adjusted her circlet of silver inset with sapphires before asking, "An orc, perhaps?"

"No, my lady. They were, as I said, as slight as one of us, if not smaller," Leivur said, more confidently this time. "I've no idea how they got on the horse with their height."

"What do you think?" Thorin murmured to his sister under his breath, scribbling a few sentences down in the notes placed on his lap.

"Most likely a traveller," she replied absentmindedly. "Perhaps a ranger venturing a bit too close to our lands. It couldn't be an agent of the Enemy, you know that. And he saw them from a distance, remember; they may not be as short as he said they were."

"Thank you for bringing this forward, child of Mahal," Thorin said audibly. "We will take this into consideration, I assure you."

Leivur bowed again, then looked up uncertainly, saying, "Sir, may I ask why you still wear garments of black? Do you still mourn?"

Dís shot a panicked glance at her brother and laid a careful hand on his arm, grounding him with her grip.

"Yes," Thorin said, giving the dwarrow a small, sad smile. "I yet mourn. I do not think that I shall ever stop."

 

* * *

 

The  _Iklaladrân A'zagh_  had been sitting in trees and atop roofs for hours, following his target around the entirety of the haven, jumping from treetop to treetop with silent feet, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He had only brought a single arrow.

Gilraen, the long-haired woman dressed in flowing, ridiculous elvish robes, stood admiring the potted rosebush in front of her, inhaling the sickly scent of the curling red petals and smiling to herself. Her eleven-year-old son, Aragorn, was nowhere to be found.

The Winter Soldier nocked an arrow as quietly as he dared from the quivering branches, wincing when the bowstring creaked as he stretched it.

They had said that Imladris was impenetrable, but he had crept inside anyway.

~~For some odd reason, he felt eerily welcome: as if he had visited it before and been given a promise of warm reception upon his return.~~

The maiden stood straighter and turned so that her torso was facing him, and he realized his chance. With a  _twang_ , he let the arrow with the tip dipped in poison fly, and it landed exactly where he had intended - in the center of her chest.

Gilraen swayed for a moment, looking down at the arrow disbelievingly, and then she collapsed, the shaft of the arrow sticking straight up into the air.

The deed was done. She had not seen him clad in black in the tree above her, his brow dripping with perspiration and his uncomfortable boots clinging to his feet, which were sticky with sweat.

And yet, he stayed.

_You_ must _make sure that she dies,_ his master had commanded.  _I will not have any sloppy murders committed by your hand._

He slung the bow back over his back and plucked a small knife from his belt, spinning it in his palm and staying silent. Streaks of orange and pink stained the azure sky as the sun descended, tendrils of light painting the blue canvas. The dying light illuminated the Dúnadain woman's body on the ground, her dress quivering in the wind as if she was still alive.

Her son, an adolescent around the Soldier's height with dark, unruly hair, appeared at the scene hours after his mother had fallen, a torch held carefully in his hand. He nearly dropped it when he saw the body, his small form folding as he crouched beside her. The child pulled the arrow from her chest with a grunt, tears streaming down his cheeks, and leant down to listen for her heartbeat.

His cry rang out into the night, the responding echoes mocking his misery.

A tall, flaxen-haired elf ran to his side almost immediately, a bow taut in his hands and an arrow at the ready.

He looked up at the  _Iklaladrân A'zagh_ , and his eyes, seeing the unfamiliar figure even in the darkness, widened.

The Winter Soldier rolled off of the wide tree-branch he had been positioned on and spun in the air as he fell to the ground, landing softly on the balls of his feet. He tossed the dagger in his right hand towards the direction of the tall figure instantly, simultaneously knocking the loosed bolt out of the air and stabbing the elf's shoulder. The blond elf staggered back, but managed to stand in front of Aragorn, his arms splayed weakly.

The Soldier turned smoothly and jumped over the railing of the balcony they were standing on, rushing down towards the water below the valley.

He glided through the foam of the rushing river like a javelin and began swimming instantly, kicking off his heavy boots in the process. He had been trained to hold his breath for several minutes, and the clean mask of cloth loosely covering his mouth and nose reminded him to keep his mouth shut and remain in the murky water for as long as his lungs could tolerate.

When he broke the surface of the brook, shaking his bangs out of his eyes, he took in large gulps of air and kept cutting through the water in powerful strokes. His dark clothes clung to him, and the stream lapped at his exposed arm of _mithril_ (he had cut away his left sleeve entirely to ensure efficient maneuverability), but rusting did not worry him; he would polish the _mithril_  extensively later, even if it was supposedly impossible to tarnish.

He rose from the stream and wrung his long hair that had fallen out of its queue, water trickling to the ground. His horse - a great black mare whom he had dubbed Myrtle for a reason he could not explain - stood tethered to a tree where he had left her, and he swung himself up onto her back, aided by one of the stirrups. The reins lay folded in his hands for a few minutes, before he clicked his tongue and urged Myrtle forward in a slow, ambling gait, contemplating the kill.

The  _Iklaladrân A'zagh_ had done everything right: he had remembered to coat the tip of the arrow with the poison provided to him, he had hit his target with a single shot, and he had waited until he was completely sure she was dead.

Why, then, did everything feel so  _wrong_?

Myrtle wandered as he laid the reins on his lap and rebraided his coarse, still-wet hair. He didn't remember ever being taught how to braid, nor did he really know how his hair had grown so long after so short a sleep.

The possibility that he had slept for years never even crossed the Winter Soldier's mind - what was left of it, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Thorin unlatched the door of the shrine with the key hung round his neck, his movements lit by moonlight streaming through a nearby window. The familiar form of the empty marble tomb reached his eyes first, and he held his torch up high as he entered the shadowy room and made his way to each red lantern, lighting them carefully so that a rosy tinge illuminated his actions. He was silent as he knelt in front of the framed portrait hung behind the tomb, his head bowed and his hands clutching a small clay pot containing a single blossom.

No body rested on the bed of marble, underneath the closed grave.

There had been no body to bury.

Thorin set the pot on the ground underneath the portrait of Bilbo - sketched by Ori several years ago and capturing the hobbit's hint of a smug smile perfectly - and looked down at the snowy  _simbelmynë_. Bilbo had once spoken enthusiastically about how the flower eerily grew only upon graves, and especially those of kings; Thorin thought it befitting, since he had once sought to make the hobbit his consort, a sort of second king under the Mountain. His icy eyes slid shut, and he breathed slowly and evenly, trying to recall the sound of his  _ghivashel_ 's voice, his witty, deadpanning jokes, the rabbit-like, unintentional quirk of his nose.

With a sigh, he murmured, "Happy birthday, dearest."

The overlapping threads of silver shone in stark contrast against the darkness of his sleek hair. Gray streaks were mingled amongst the almost-black brownness of his thick mane, and he wondered if Bilbo's hair would have grown gray like his, as well. It was a sign of age, of weariness, and of stress. He wondered if Bilbo would have let his auburn curls grow longer, too, and if he would have let Thorin braid it in the mornings. Perhaps their gray hairs would grow in number until there was no trace of their original coloring left.

Perhaps, had fate been kinder, they would have been allowed to grow old together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _iklaladrân_ \- winter  
>  _luzun_ \- lost  
>  _ukhâsh_ \- counters  
>  _azrâl_ \- longing  
>  _bagl_ \- rust  
>  _tagem_ \- ninety  
>  _ibrizinlêkh_ \- sunshine  
>  _Bâha-zunsh-hund_ \- Ravenhill  
>  _gimon_ \- eight  
>  _'uglakh(ul)_ \- better, kinder  
>  _Azsâlul'abad_ \- Lonely Mountain  
>  _nu'_ \- two  
>  _aslun_ \- fall  
>  _A'zagh?_ \- Soldier (warrior)?  
>  _Rumush amud_ \- Ready to comply.  
>  _Iklaladrân A'zagh_ \- Winter Soldier  
>  _nadad_ \- brother  
>  _shamukh_ \- greetings  
>  _ghivashel_ \- treasure of all treasures
> 
> **Sindarin Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _mithril_ \- silver-steel  
>  _simbelmynë_ \- Evermind
> 
> **Black Speech Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _Mir, mir!_ \- Good, good!  
>  _nar_ \- no  
>  _Mirdautas vras._ \- It is a good day to kill.
> 
> Several pictures of medieval prosthetics ([here](http://65.media.tumblr.com/6f7d9554951026f058a77af5c53d8faa/tumblr_inline_o9hu933hGm1tuordk_540.png), [here](http://65.media.tumblr.com/d9c8dcb18cfca6e7d25727fb8661f885/tumblr_inline_o9hu9dqun81tuordk_500.png), and [here](http://65.media.tumblr.com/5da13525a781e9bd42e08fc8df6163f6/tumblr_inline_o9hu9oaIFo1tuordk_540.png)) inspired me and helped me to sufficiently describe Bilbo's _mithril_ arm. For reference for Bilbo's knife tricks, check out [this gif](https://67.media.tumblr.com/0b408454b455322c803ac94dff613c88/tumblr_nxu630Q3Qb1ub1y8go1_250.gif) of Sebastian Stan training. It's mesmerizing.
> 
> Concerning the trigger words: I replaced the words that were specific to Bucky with words that are specific to Bilbo. For example, the numbers one, nine, and seventeen refer to Bucky's year of birth, 1917. Those numbers were replaced with two, eight, and ninety, since Bilbo was born in 2890. "Freight car" was replaced with "fall", and so on. I also had to replace the word "rusted" with "rust", seeing as the word "rusted" doesn't exist in Khuzdul.
> 
> I also replaced "daybreak" with "sunshine", since that's what Bilbo never sees whilst in Barad-dûr; "furnace" with "Ravenhill", a rather traumatic place for him (since he never knew if Thorin lived or died up there); and "benign" with "better", since there isn't a word for "benign" in Khuzdul. Finally, "homecoming" I replaced with "Lonely Mountain", since that was supposed to be Bilbo's home.
> 
> **It is extremely important to note that the form of "warrior" that I used, _"a'zagh"_ , is the non-person form.**
> 
> I've created [an ask blog](http://ask-winter-soldier-bilbo.tumblr.com) for the Winter Soldier! Please feel free to ask any and all of your questions.


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